The wrinkled arm jutting out thick and oily

On wet canvas is resting at the side 

Of the old model. That bloated gut,

Those flabby legs have nestled in the rut

That is the painter's eye and there abide:

A man half fleshed in paint and half in mind.

A sign upon the door threatens of nude,

Unseemly skin inside, and stench of sweat

Dripping from Painter's brow mingles in rank 

Reaction with wines from Bordeaux's left bank.

A panicked pacing sounds the weight of debt 

From home, and paint, and drink, and models' skin.

When now a new composite man, his matter 

Transferred from flesh to thick furrowed brush-strokes,

Is easeled like Adam still wet with mud

And cradled in His arm, a period

Of dressing, then the model carefully pokes

His home address into his GPS.